Journal of a Working Boy

(Written Friday, March 31, 2006)

As I wandered through the Mexican mini-mart, peeking through plastic covers of foreign nudey-magazines and attempting to read Spanish soda pop labels, I began to wonder about small town life. I wondered why there wasn't a place to eat within view of the Corning, California City Hall. What do people who grow up in towns with populations of 3,500 consider to be viable professional options? What happens to a town built on farming prosperity when modern science causes small farms to be obsolete? I wondered if the girls working at the bank thought I was cute when I asked them to charge my cell phone for me. They were awfully nice and smiley...

I hobbled across Corning's dangerously busy main street clutching my camera in my left hand. My bookbag bounced from side to side. "What the hell am I doing here," I laughed.

I couldn't have waited until morning to begin my 10 hour drive from Eugene to Oakland for a pseudo-spring break vacation. It had been too long since I drove all night and I had never gotten to sleep in the back of my van by myself like I had gloriously planned so long ago. It was 10 p.m. the night before I ended up in Corning, clutching my camera in my left hand while hobbling across a dangerously busy street. My bags were already packed, I wasn't at all tired and no one was around to try to stop me. I loaded a sleeping bag and pillow, a few snacks, my suitcase and a bookbag. I decided to get a few hours of driving in as long as I was awake.

The high school punk rock blasted through my stereo during the first couple hours at a volume loud enough that I wasn't reminded of the unfortunate reality of my own singing voice. The windy roads were scary at night but not so dangerous and the traffic was sparse enough to keep a steady pace. I felt excited and happy as the mile markers counted down the distance to the California border. 153... 122... 98... 80...

I started listening to Kurt Vonnegut's "Slaughterhouse Five" on CD. The narrator spoke softly, adding eeriness to my overnight travels. The van's exhaust wheezed in typical Van Club tradition - it demanded attention and concern. The duct taped left side window rattled and squeaked reminding me that it too wanted attention and care.

I began considering where to rest for the night. Would a freeway rest area be too bright? Would the side of a country rode be too creepy? As I contemplated my next destination a sparkly billboard caught my attention. "7-Feathers Casino - Eat, Drink, Play!" The sign listed a poker room as one of the resort's amenities. My sleeping plans changed. It was time to take some money from some old people.

I strolled confidently through 7-Feathers' front doors wearing blue button-up running pants, a Cincinnati Reds 1990 National League Champions T-shirt, an Oregon zip-up sweatshirt and a Chicago Cubs baseball hat. I looked like a street vendor at a Major League Baseball All-Star Game. I stopped awkwardly in front of a security guard, expecting to be ID'd. He smiled. I kept moving.

The stale smell of clothing marinated in cigarette smoke overwhelmed my senses. Old men viscously poked slot machine buttons with their money card sticking in the front of the machine. Most of them used shoestrings to secure the card to their arm, a brittle bond of amusement and hope for each.

In the poker room, the pit boss explained that the game was $4 - $8 No Limit Hold 'Em and that there were no smaller stakes tonight. I told him that those stakes were higher than I wanted to get into and I walked back through the casino wondering whether or not I should play. One voice in my head, Andrew Smith's, told me to do it, "Don't be a bitch," it said. "Get in their and take those fuckers' money." Another voice, Andy Stelter's, pleaded for me to leave, "Don't be a bitch," it said. "Leave!" I sat in my van, bored of driving and not tired enough to sleep, poker strategies echoing in my head. "I can live with losing $60 here," I decided. Sixty dollars was the amount that I believed I would lose if I played (and lost) two hands all the way through the four rounds of betting.

I ended up playing for about half an hour and things didn't go so well. I played well, don't get me wrong. But I lost my two betting hands in unavoidable situations. I left the casino $71 poorer than I arrived. The reason? Quad aces and trip threes. It happens.

I drove for another hour, continuing to creep up on the California border. The quiet story-telling of Ethan Hawke's reading of "Slaughterhouse Five," began losing my interest and I felt sleepy. I pulled into a rest area 20 miles from the border, crawled into the back of the van, covered the side window with a blanket to keep light out and went to sleep. I awoke at 6:30 with my back kinked over the angled captain's chair as my legs were kicked sideways over the other chair. It hurt like hell. I slept for a couple more hours and got on the road at 9 a.m., the originally planned Eugene departure time. I was well ahead of schedule. If I made good time I would avoid the Bay Area afternoon traffic. I was laughing in the face of punctuality.

I swiftly drove through some snow capped mountains and cruised through the northern Californian farmland. I was enjoying "Slaughterhouse Five" while I mowed down mile markers and said goodbye to the small towns that dot the way to Sacramento. I noticed that I was continually leaning closer to the speakers to hear the soft voice of Ethan Hawke. The wheezing noise was getting louder. Suddenly, the noise erupted to a full-fledged cry for help. The wheezing turned into moaning and the van began losing power. I turned loud music on in an attempt to drown out the noise but it wasn't enough. All I could do was keep an eye out for an exhaust shop along the way.

But the noise got louder and the engine got worse. I set the cruise control to 70 and the engine struggled to keep speed. The van slowly lunged forward and backward, forward and backward. I passed another small casino. "Grrr," I thought. "I'd like to go get some money from them, too."

Two miles later the van jerked backward, the engine roared and the speedometer shot up to 110. The wheezing stopped and the engine could no longer force the rear wheels to turn. I coasted off the next exit, conveniently located just a quarter mile away, turned down a side street and stopped in an abandoned parking lot. I laughed. I knew that this was where Van Club was going to end.

I peeked underneath the rear of the van and smoke poured out of a contraption in the middle of the rear axle. The problem had nothing to do with the exhaust. I called my brother Matt and told him that "the pole that connects the engine to the back wheel has this circular housing thing where it meets the axle and it's smoking."

He laughed like he always does when I describe, in layman's terms, what's wrong with a vehicle. He told me that what was smoking is called a "rear differential" and that I was right about one thing: The van was fucked.

I changed out of my stylish running pants and into jeans, put on a baseball cap and walked into the parking lot's neighboring RV dealership. A kind woman named Mary offered me a ride to the nearest town. She made a couple calls and we decided that I should visit the Greyhound/ Amtrak station in Corning, eight miles north of my abandoned minivan's carcass.

An Amtrak bus was scheduled to stop in Corning about two hours later and would take me to Sacramento where I could get on a train to Oakland. I made arrangements with my classmates to hitch a ride back to Eugene Sunday and to stop for the stripping of my van on the way. I amused myself in Corning by walking into Mexican grocery stores and hanging out in the seemingly abandoned video store. I visited the City Hall's tourist information room and spoke with Valenna, a friendly, Corning-born woman who returned to the town after living in San Francisco, Oakland and New York City. "Small towns are nice," she said. "Some are better than others..." She offered me an entire pack of Girl Scout cookies before I left to catch the bus. I accepted five and a cup of water. I thanked her for talking to me.

While waiting for the bus, I messed around with my digital camera's video function. I set the camera on a newspaper box and video taped myself eating a cookie and drinking water. I walked by the camera, acted like I didn't see it, then asked it if it had ever been stuck in a small town because its car wouldn't go. Then I taped myself sprinting across the palm tree-lined parking lot like an idiot.

When the Amtrak bus pulled up I was tired from the running. The bus was comfortable and mostly empty. The three hour ride to Sacramento was smooth and peaceful, except for my sudden hunger. I had only eaten a donut and drank cup of coffee since leaving Eugene. I watched the videos I had just made and I laughed. The transition onto the Amtrak train was convenient and the ride was comfortable. I sat, sipping a screwdriver as the beastly train made its way through the pseudo-shared suburbs of Sacramento and Oakland.

As i rode the Oakland city bus with Rebecca toward her apartment, the clock crept up on 10 p.m. I had been traveling for 24 hours, with no pressing deadlines or unbreakable appointments. I felt very tired, but also rejuvenated. As if this short break from the mundane was worth the devastation of my beloved automobile. In a way, it was. I came in contact with countless strangers during this voyage from the graveyard shift female gas station attendants in Cottage Grove, just outside of Eugene, to the high school girl who did her homework across from me on the Amtrak train between Sacramento and Oakland. Sometimes it's nice to get away from normalcy to go out of your way and not stress out about what you're missing or where you're supposed to be.

"Can't nobody take my time/ Can't nobody hold me down/ Oh no, I got to keep on movin'."